TURKEY

Many readers will recognize this poem as one I have—almost traditionally now—published in November around the time of the American holiday of Thanksgiving. This year it will also appear in the fall issue of THE LYRIC, the oldest magazine in North America in continuous publication of traditional poetry since 1921.
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The turkey is a curious bird
And there’s a tale quite often heard
Of how this hapless, weak birdbrain
Looks up, agape, and drowns in rain.
But that is really just a myth
To entertain the gullible with.

In fact his monofocal eye
Must look sideways at the sky
Not up…and he might as easily drown
In puddles, failing to look down.
Poor thing can’t fly, can barely walk,
And gobble-gobble is his talk.

The ostentation of his tail
And puffed-out chest will surely fail
To keep him swaggeringly proud
If there’s a noise, and it is loud.
Then he is spooked, suddenly tense
And runs to cower by the fence.

American fowl of colonial fame
That Benjamin Franklin wanted to name
Federal symbol, national bird—
Turkey? Ridiculous! Turkey? Absurd!
Yet, in a way, it has almost come true–
Not on The Seal, but on the menu.

When Thanksgiving comes, it’s almost a law
Though steak lovers groan and vegans say “pshaw!”
That turkey be served as pre-eminent meat
Above the plenty of plenty to eat.
Crackling, drumstick, breast and wing
This one day a year, turkey is king.
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copyright Cynthia Jobin 2014
TURKEY

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NOTE TO REGULAR READERS: For health reasons I may not be able to keep to my customary schedule of posting….playing it by ear, henceforth, rather than by the book.

SHORTLY HEREAFTER

Too much of something in the way of angels
has been flying overhead and dropping
digital illusions on our sullen task and grief—-

a moon-beamed manna in a splendid light
with sorceries to turn a cynic desert
of deep yearning into rivers of belief.

Shortly hereafter there will be too many
books to read, for which there is no need.

Great is our gratitude, and much too much
we eat, we drink and much we almost say
before it is too late, but don’t say after all;

we stagger off to bed with our big heads
and rise at daybreak like a tribe possessed
to gulp our coffee, drive a bee line to the mall.

Shortly hereafter there’ll be hell to pay, but
at the least, we will have had a feast.

Too many leaves have fallen, cut loose
last night when a wild wind woke us with its
hellish howl among the maples, ash, and oak;

now in the morning light they lie in layers
thick, damp, limp as tiny landlocked wings
whose former ties to angels broke.

Shortly hereafter, there’ll be lots of raking
we must do, before the work is through.
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SHORTLY HEREAFTER

TURKEY

The turkey is a curious bird
And there’s a tale quite often heard
Of how this hapless, weak birdbrain
Looks up, agape, and drowns in rain.
But that is really just a myth
To entertain the gullible with.

In fact his monofocal eye
Must look sideways at the sky
Not up…and he might as easily drown
In puddles, failing to look down.
Poor thing can’t fly, can barely walk,
And gobble-gobble is his talk.

The ostentation of his tail
And puffed-out chest will surely fail
To keep him swaggeringly proud
If there’s a noise, and it is loud.
Then he is spooked, suddenly tense
And runs to cower by the fence.

American fowl of colonial fame
That Benjamin Franklin wanted to name
Federal symbol, national bird—
Turkey? Ridiculous! Turkey? Absurd!
Yet, in a way, it has almost come true–
Not on The Seal, but on the menu.

When Thanksgiving comes, it’s almost a law
Though steak lovers groan and vegans say “pshaw!”
That turkey be served as pre-eminent meat
Above the plenty of plenty to eat.
Crackling, drumstick, breast and wing
This one day a year, turkey is king.
.
.
copyright Cynthia Jobin 2014
TURKEY

THE TRIBES ARE WONDERING

Maybe in their bones or late-night thoughts
the leaders wonder how it ends,
how it began, how one can answer
to and fro the dark.  Maybe

the wondering is very small,
a moment between this and that,
stopped in a window just above the sink.
Summer shivers.  Snowball disappears in snow.

Who is leader, really, who is led?
A wonderment, though no one lets another
know he doesn’t know.
Puffed chests and roasted turkeys

to grandmother’s house we go.
The motions are protected by a blanket
covering a blank.  The young are puzzled
as to why, or who to thank.